With Bangkok submerged and crocodiles patrolling the suburbs (no joke) I decided to jet off to Morocco, the country of deserts, mountains, Berbers, souks and tagines. This was my second trip to Morocco, the first being a hiking holiday in the High Atlas with a lively young guide called Mohammed. This time however, I was travelling solo with the aim off seeing more of the city life and, significantly more importantly, photographing it.
Upon entering the dragons den of the Marrakesh souks for the second time, it occurred to me that, sometimes in life, a guide is not a bad thing. In particular, two situations clearly necessitate a guide. The first such occasion is when one decides to spend a number of days wandering unfamiliar “hill ranges”. Whilst getting hopelessly lost in the souks can, sometimes, be rather enjoyable, the same would not apply to discovering oneself missing in the hills. In the world of 25 days holiday a year, one’s employer may not look favourably upon such an error of judgment. The second, and which is a logical extrapolation of the first, is that in 35 degree temperatures where available sources of hydration may be limited, becoming lost may have some severe adverse consequences capable of really ruining a holiday.
However, the less obvious advantage of having a guide, is that when one has a guide, others cease looking to make themselves one’s guide. Now don’t mis-understand me, the Morocco touts are not a patch on their Indian counterparts where scamming has reached the pinnacle of sophistication (see previous blog). Nonetheless, what the Moroccans lack in “sophistication”, they make up for in persistence. “I’m not lost (a clear lie)” and “I really don’t want a guide and I won’t pay you” seemed generally ineffective. Even the silent treatment didn’t work. A perfect opportunity to try some Dutch! “Meneer, ik ben Nederlands. Spreek je Nederlands?”. “Ja, ik spreek Nederlands. Had je een goede dag? Wil je nu de souks ziens”. Jesus, I though, I’ve lived in Holland for two years now and this tout speaks better Dutch than I do. “How about I pay you ten Dirham to disappear…”
After a night in Marrakesh I jumped on the overnight bus to Fez, knowing that I would need to return to in a couple of days before heading south to the beach. Fez, unlike Marrakesh is nearly entirely enclosed with the souks lining two main thoroughfares through the city before arriving at an absolutely huge mosque. Apparently, using the Lonely Planet as a reliable source of information, this mosque used to dominate the city but over the centuries the medina had expanded making the outside walls of the mosque impossible to see from street level. However, from the views from the hills around Fez the green pyramid structure dominates the sky-line.
Close to Fez is the third imperial city of Morocco, Meknes. Meknes has many attributes. Its a little quieter than its two bigger brothers, hassle is non-existent and its markedly cheaper. However, accommodation quality is not one of its attributes. I have stayed in some pretty dingy hostels over the years (Hong Kong winning the awards in that area). However, rarely have I seen a bathroom that genuinely frightens me. First time for everything I guess. Notwithstanding that (and to be fair if I hadn’t arrived at one in the morning it probably would have been easier to fin something better), there are some great sights to see. A “grand” taxi ride away (you will understand the joke if you ever see a grand taxi) are the roman ruins of Volubilis (a world heritage sight and very impressive) and the peaceful town of Moulay Idriss, a religious city which has only recently allowed non-Muslims to enter.
After a couple of nights in Meknes, it was time to head south to the beach for a few days of relaxation. After a brief stopover in Marrakesh (emphasis on brief), I arrive at the coastal city of Essouria (Essweera in Arabic). On arrival, the bus station, like all others, was packed with touts. One in particular particularly caught my wick, however. A heavily deadlocked (immediate minus point) hippy Aussie who was strategically place at the exit of the bus suggested I stay at his hostel. Having already decided where I was heading (and on the basis you never follow anyone at the bus station), I declined. Apparently, “no” in English means something different in Australian. After following me down the road on his bicycle and suggesting that as a “fellow Australian” I should “open my mind a little” I politely suggested he “**** off”. “Firstly”, I pointed out, “I am not Australian… and secondly, I expect this crap of a Moroccan but not a Westerner.”
Once that little encounter was over, I found the truly delightful little hostel I was after and settled into a few days of gentle exploration. Beaches, fresh fish grills, local art galleries (I made my first ever purchase of proper art) and fine dining, this place really is relaxing. Oh… and Hammams (the Moroccan form of massage and cleansing). For those who visit Morocco, there are two distinct types of Hammam, the tourist type, and the local type. I would strongly advise the former. I was, naively, expecting a relaxing deep tissue massage to remove some of those knots in my back from playing too much squash. Big mistake. They say that homosexuality is rife is Morocco and I can completely believe it. After a shower to begin with you go into a sauna in underwear where you are greeted by semi-naked men lathering each other in oil. Once this process is complete the “cracking” begins. I have never had my breast plate cracked, or indeed my neck and shoulders, and particularly not by a hairy (but frighteningly strong) middle aged man pinning me to the floor. Once this first phase is complete, out come the brillo pads. You are scrubbed to the point that you are almost bleeding. I thought that the black bits covering my body were some form of soap but was later told that it was infact my skin… logical when you think about it. Following this, and with a rather tender and exposed back, comes the “soothing cream”. I can assure you, this is not soothing and is more akin to placing Old Spice all over your body. Given that all protective skin layers had already been removed, this burns intensely. After initially thinking of the James Bond film where Mayday crushes her victims to death on the massage table, I began to contemplate “is this my penance for taking pictures of the locals without asking… did I accidentally photograph this guy’s wife… will anyone ever see me again… and… I am still going to have to tip this guy”.
Whilst still recovering, I was quite sad to leave Essouria which is probably my favourite town in Morocco. Eying the same Australian at the bus station as I left (with that classic look of “don’t even think about talking to me”) I departed on the bus back to Marrakesh for a brief day trip to the mountains and a final dinner in the main square.